The Downfall of Sherlock Holmes
by Jcaslcgaiwd
Summary: Sherlock has changed dramatically and is taking extreme measures. (Warinng: self harm, drug abuse, murder, and dark themes).
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Okay so I am going to write this fanfiction with my good friend, who I absolutely adore. Her pen name is "RainyDays-and-DayDreams". She is a fantastic author so check out her stories, please! I will write the odd chapters and she will write the even ones. The story and all of its chapters will be on both of our accounts, so you have no need to worry!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or its fantastic characters.**

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Sherlock closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. He lies on the couch, rolling his sleeve up. He jabs the syringe into his arm, feeling the drug enter his system. He lets out a satisfied sigh, loving the feeling if he drug running through his system and washing all if his worries away. Calming his body. Taking away the pain and numbness, leaving numbness and happiness.

He calculates how long it would be until John got home before he begins his plans, double checking he'll have enough time for his desires. He gets up, strolling into the bathroom. His head was a bit fuzzy, but he could still make it to the toilet. He shoves his fingers down his throat, causing his breakfast to come up. He watches as the once clear water changes to a chunky brown color.

The only reason he had eaten that bloody oatmeal was because John had forced him to. Oh well, it was all gone now. Sherlock stands up, grabbing his razor. He takes the blade off, holding it between his two shaking fingers. He hated it all, but this was the only way. The only way to stop the pain and the hurt and everything.

Obviously he wasn't going to kill himself. Well, not yet at least. He reopens some of the old scars, and even creates some new ones. The drug makes it so it doesn't hurt as much, which is nice. Later when it wares off he would either reopen some scars or make more. He never told John any of the things he did because he wouldn't understand.

Their was no way John could know what kind of pain and hurt he had gone through. Ever. Even if he gave his friend every God damn detail of what he's been through, he still wouldn't understand. Nobody could, except Sherlock. He was all alone in this situation. That was the thing that hurt him the most out of everything.

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Young Sherlock Holmes runs down the stairs, the loud noise waking him up. He sees his Mother locking the door, fear in her eyes. Sherlock deduced that someone had been outside, she had threatened then, and finally she ran inside once they started to chase her. Who had been chasing her, Sherlock had no idea.

"Mummy, who's after you?" He asks, making the paranoid woman jump.

"I don't know, honey. Where's your brother?"

"He isn't in his room. Must have snuck out with his girlfriend." She nods, running over to her son.

"Well, we just have to hope he'll be alright. Now, Sherlock dear, I want you to go upstairs into your bedroom and lock the door, turn off the lights, and be very quiet. Got it?"

"But what about you?"

"I'll be fine, just do as I ask." She says, her voice shaking slightly. Sherlock nods, running up the stairs. He locks the door, putting a chair in front of it for good measure. He then turns off the light, sitting on his bed. He stares at the door, heart pounding. He hears the front door slam open, his Mother screaming.

Heavy footsteps and her light one's run across the floor. He hears a deep male voice teasing her. He listens as he hits her and throws her on the floor. She cries, begging him to spare her life. It takes everything Sherlock has to not get up and help her. He listens as the man rapes her.

She cries and begs for him to stop, but he doesn't. Then he finishes, but the torture doesn't end. He brings down his axe, butchering her body slowly. She dies slowly and the boy has to listen to every second of it. It seems to go on and on, never-ending. Eventually it does.

Then suddenly, everything is silent.

Sherlock begins to relax, thinking the psychopath is gone. Then he hears the axe scraping the stairwell. The man was walking up the stairs slowly, almost teasing Sherlock. He hears the man reach the second floor, scraping the walls now.

"Come out, come out where ever you are!" He yells in a low, spine chilling voice. Sherlock slides under the bed, trying to stay completely silent. "I know you're up here!" The footsteps stop outside the door, tapping it. The murder was humming cheerfully and Sherlock could almost see his smirk through the white wood.

The doorknob begins to turn and Sherlock closes his eyes, waiting for death to come. Then he hears it outside. Sirens of a police car, coming to save him! The man swears, letting go of the door and running down stairs. Sherlock remains under the bed, too scared to move. He hears the cops run in, yelling orders.

Gun shots ring out and a body falls. Footsteps run up the stairs and his bedroom door swings open. A flashlight shines into his eyes and the officer smiles at him gently. Sherlock scrambles out from under the bed, the cop patting his back.

"Good job hiding like that. Smart move. What's your name, son?"

"Sherlock Holmes." He whispers, shivering. Numbly he's led downstairs. He is placed in the back of an ambulance, an orange blanket draped around his thin shoulders. He looks away when they bring his Mother's body out on the gurney, the white sheet covered in red now. He doesn't cry, he just stares. Blocking out everything and slipping into his mind palace. The police question him and he answers, hardly paying attention.

He didn't want to. He made a note to delete the memory later, not wanting to ever think or see it again. Too bad he forgot to.

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**Don't forget to review and chapter two will be soon! XD**


	2. Chapter 2

**Here is Chapter two by the lovely miss RainyDays-and-DayDreams. Hope you enjoy her writing.**

**Disclaimer: Neither one of us own Sherlock.**

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To say John was worried about his flatmate was an understatement. John was really, really, worried. He knew there was something going on, but for the life of him, he couldn't figure out what. He was a doctor, for God's sake, but he couldn't figure out what was wrong with his best friend. He tried to assuage his guilt, thinking, /It's Sherlock Holmes, for God's sake. If he wanted to hide something from me, it would stay hidden./But he still felt horrible that he couldn't figure out what the hell was going on. He had noticed how his flatmate was slowly losing more and more weight, how he always wore long- sleeved shirts now, even on the days so hot John could hardly move without feeling his entire body protest. John had tried to to confront Sherlock, he really had, but every time he would start with "Sherlock, we really need to talk about this-" Sherlock would cut him off by leaving the room or giving him a stony glare. If John continued talking, Sherlock would just ignore him and sit still, barely moving even to breathe. Eventually John would leave, a defeated look in his eyes, and before he turned away he always thought he saw something in Sherlock's eyes as well. Sadness. Regret, maybe. John thought it was his imagination.

John slowly walked up the stairs, carrying the Tesco's bag. As always, they had needed milk, but they were running low on other supplies as well. Ever since Sherlock had been rescued from Moriarty three months ago, Mrs. Hudson, bless her soul, had done most of their shopping for them, but she was out of town visiting her sister, and they really needed the food. The oatmeal John had forced Sherlock to eat that morning had been the last item of food in their house. As if on cue, John's stomach growled. He ignored it and pushed open the door, eyes adjusting to the near darkness of their flat. "I'm home, Sherlock," he called out, before reaching for the lights to turn them on. "Please don't tell me you've been experimenting with fluorescent worms again," John called out, only half-jokingly. Once all the lights were on, and the groceries put away, John sat down on the couch and sighed. He suddenly realized he hadn't heard anything at all from his flatmate, and sat up again, slightly nervous. Sherlock should've given at least some indication of his continuing presence at the flat by now.

"Sherlock?" he called out. "Are you there?" Not hearing anything, John fought down a wave of panic. Calm down, Watson, he told himself.

Sherlock's probably experimenting with something right now, and can't hear me. That still didn't calm him down. John couldn't help it. Ever since Moriarty's abduction of Sherlock, John had had minor panic attacks every time he didn't hear from Sherlock. "Sherlock?" John called out again, a slight note of panic in his voice. He went down the hall to where Sherlock's room and the bathroom was. He saw a light in the bathroom.

Oh, thank God, he thought, before beginning to rap his knuckles on the door. "You okay in there?" he asked. He heard some shuffling noises, and Sherlock's slightly muffled voice saying,

"I'm fine, John. Go away."

"You sure? Because-"

"I'm fine. Please go now."

John sighed and leaned against the door. Yes, there was definitely something wrong with Sherlock. And all John knew was that it had started with Moriarty's abduction of Sherlock.

* * *

The two weeks where Sherlock had been missing were a literal hell. John had returned the flat one night to find him gone, but he didn't really start to worry until he didn't show up the day after. Still, he didn't call anything in, because he knew that Sherlock would often be gone for hours and hours for a case. This one was just probably taking longer than usual, John reasoned. When he still wasn't back by the next day, John called Lestrade and Mycroft to ask if they knew where he was. That's when he received the first clue. Moriarty left a message on his phone, telling him with no small amount of glee in his voice that he had taken Sherlock, was holding him captive, and had to solve his riddles if he ever wanted to see his "precious detective' again. "Come and get me, Johnny- boy," Moriarty had cooed, before relaying the first clue.

The next two weeks were spent desperately trying to solve the madman's riddles and puzzles, which was no easy task. And every time they finished a riddle, another one appeared. Eventually, they found their way to the place where Moriarty had been holding Sherlock. The last note had read, "I've had fun playing with your toy, but I'm afraid he's a tad… broken now. Good luck." When they arrived and found Sherlock, John saw a sight he knew that no matter how hard he tried, he would never forget. Sherlock had been passed out strapped to a table, nearly naked and covered in cuts, bruises, burns, stab wounds, and many other things John didn't wish to identify. His hair was matted with blood, and John could see that nearly all his fingers, and many other of his bones were broken. Moriarty had even written "FREAK" in large letters on Sherlock's chest with a knife, and had cut one of his cheekbones in such a way that John knew it would scar. That wasn't the worst par, though. The absolute worst was when Sherlock had woken up screaming in pain, begging for them to kill him. John felt his heart shatter into a million crystalline shreds right then. He knew his friend wouldn't okay, not ever again, and he hated Moriarty for it. He vowed revenge. But first thing was first- he had to help Sherlock heal.

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**Review and more will come!**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Here's chapter three. Hope you enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own this show it its characters.**

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Sherlock stood in front of the bathroom mirror, shirt off. He was observing his scars and how skinny he was. His ribs were very much prominent, making his scars more obvious and noticeable. He exits the bathroom, laying down on the couch. He double checks that the flat door is locked (he's kept it like that since his kidnapping, especially when home alone), and glances at the clock.

Four thirty. An hour until John got home. He unrolls his sleeve, observing his scars. This made him smile, but it wasn't because he had hurt himself. No, it was because he had had control over this. Because he had been able to do this all on his own.

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_Sherlock woke up, body aching and . He looks at his surroundings, them very good. He was tied down to a table, only in his underwear. Violent shivers run through his body as he begins to realize that the room is about twenty degrees Fahrenheit. The door swings open and Moriarty strolls in._

_He goes over to the detective and rubs his curls. Sherlock pulls away, anger in his eyes. The consulting criminal raises an eyebrow, snapping his fingers. A large man comes in, wheeling a small table. On it were several items, all of them not pleasant. Knives, syringes, scissors, bottles of odd substances of a wide variation of colors, and bunch of other torture tools layed on it._

_"Ready to play?" Moriarty coos, picking up a large knife with a thin, sharp tip. His assistant shoves a cloth into Sherlock's mouth and the psychopath traces the knife against Sherlock's pale chest. "What shall I start with?" He shrugs. "It 't matter to me!" He sings playfully._

_Sherlock screams as the knife digs into him._

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Sherlock wakes up, panting and sweating. Just another nightmare. He sits up, thin legs hanging over the side of the bed. He takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself down. He gets up, stumbling into the bathroom. He leans over the toilet, vomiting. The detective finishes and then turns on the shower, needing to cool down.

He gets undressed, stepping in. He let's the cool water run over his body, washing away the stress and nightmares. After a few minutes though he begins to shiver so he turns off the water, getting out. He slides into his clothes, surprised by how large they were.

Sherlock stares at himself, absolutely disgusted by what he saw. He was so ugly and despicable. He was skinny, weak, and ugly. He hated everything about himself, including his personality. He was mean, spiteful, stubborn, and just a plain jerk. Moriarty was right, he was nothing.

The angry detective grabs his razor, rolling his sleeve up. He begins to cut, watching the blood fall. He loves everything. The blood, the pain, the power. The power that he could kill himself so easily. He stops eventually, not wanting to bleed out. He begins to count his self-inflicted scars, just out of curiosity.

Thirty six.

Thirty six scars and he had done them all on his own. He washes off his razor, putting the towels and such up also. He slips back into his room, laying under his covers. He falls asleep, stroking his scars.

* * *

John gets up that morning, still wasn't up. He shrugs, allowing his friend the extra needed rest. He makes tea, sitting down and reading the newspaper. Around late morning his friend gets up, waving to him and then heading for the bathroom. The doctor jumps when a loud crash comes from there, causing his heart to skip a beat.

He runs into the bathroom, swinging the door open. Sherlock layed on the floor, passed out. He runs to his friend's side, checking for a pulse. It was there, but weak. The panicking blond pulls Sherlock up, dragging him into the living room. The detective was alarmingly light, but John ignored that for the time being.

He puts his friend on the couch, trying to shake him awake. Then he grabs a cup full of cold water, throwing it onto his friend. Sherlock sits up, gasping and eyes big with panic. He begins to yell and thrash, punching John across the face.

Sherlock must have thought he was with Moriarty again because he was yelling for someone to stop. The older man tries to stop the yelling and thrashing, bus his attempts were fruitless. He tries to hold his friend's thin arms down and even muffle his mouth with his hand, but the hysterical man just gets worse.

John gets up, running to the fridge. He searched through it until he found the vial containing the sedative. He pours the liquid down his friend's throat. Sherlock tries to fight it, but after a few minutes his eyes roll back into his head and he is dead asleep. John lets out a relieved sigh, throwing the bottle onto the floor.

He begins to observe his friend, trying to figure out why he had passed out in the first place. He notices Sherlock's vitals are way off and his blood sugar was dangerously low. It was as of he hadn't eaten in days, but that was impossible. He had made Sherlock eat everyday before work and when it was dinner time.

Now that he thought about it, Sherlock has spent an awful a lot of time in the bathroom.

No, Sherlock wouldn't do those types of things, right? Or would he? John shakes his head, thinking he was insane or maybe he wasn't. He bites his lip, trying to decide what to do here. Better to be safe than sorry. He unbuttons his friend's shirt, hating how lose it was on him. He is shocked by what he sees. Besides the endless scars (including the one that says FREAK) he notices how predominate the younger man's ribs were.

John closes his eyes, knowing that his worst fears had came true. Sherlock was starving himself to deal with the pain and hurt. The upset doctor fixes his friend's shirt, noticing a piece of his sleeve was rolled up. He double checks that Sherlock was still asleep before he rolled up his sleeve.

His heart drops to his stomach.

Sherlock's arms were covered with scars, all selfinclicted. He rolls the sleeve down, putting his head in his hands. He had failed as a doctor and best friend. John sits like this for a while, unable to cope. Soon enough though and he feels tears in his eyes.

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**Well that hurt to write. Review and make me happy!**


	4. Chapter 4

**_A/N: Hey, ya'll! RainyDays-and-Daydreams here. I know, I know, I'm a heartless bitch for making you wait so long. In my defense, I really wan't trying to make you wait so long- as much as I wish it didn't exist, there is this thing called real life that just loooves to fuck with me. And whatever plans I might have had. So, I am really, truly, sorry, and I will make more of an effort to update more frequently in the future. Did I say I love you all? Every single one of you? I love you. *huggles reader* Please forgive me. Anyhoo.. I should probably get on with the actual story now... but don't forget to leave the lovely Jcaslcgaiwd a review, please! Again, much love! Enjoy!_**

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Sherlock began to wake slowly, dazed. _What happened?_ he thought, slowly sitting up. He put his hand to his head as it began to pound, a slow, relentless rhythm that caused his head to want to explode. A fuzzy memory comes, back to him. _Oh no,_he thought. His eyes opened wide with panic, migraine all but forgotten. John couldn't know. He mustn't know about the things he had been doing to himself to keep away the pain...

He sat up and looked for the good doctor. He saw John sitting in a chair, face in his hands, shaking slightly. _He's crying,_ Sherlock realized. He looked down and saw his sleeves had been rolled up. That's when he remembered what had happened. John had sedated him... Panic began to build in him again. How much had John seen? He needed to know.

'

He cleared his throat nervously. "John?' he asked. His throat was raspy. _Probably from screaming_, he thought. He winced, and then asked again when he realized he hadn't heard a response from the older man. "John?" he asked again, his voice slightly louder and clearer. The doctor looked up, startled. His eyes were red, and Sherlock could see the tear tracks on his face. "Sherlock?" he asked, looking at him. "Are you awake?"

Sherlock sighed. "No, John, I'm still asleep, and you're hallucinating all of this. Yes, I'm awake." He punctuated this with an eyeroll that could rival any teenager's. John, sad as he was, couldn't suppress a grin that emerged because of his flatmate's sarcastic comment. Then he sighed, and ran a hand through his short, blonde hair. "Sherlock..." he began. "We need to talk about this."

"No, we don't" Sherlock said, suddenly defensive. "I am worthless. A freak, a monster, a fucking psychopath." He spat the words out like they were venom, and each word broke a little of John's heart. "I am useless, I am weak, I am nothing. I'm just treating myself like I should be treated." Sherlock looked down as he uttered the last sentence, and his eyes held a look of absolute defeat and misery John hadn't seen... well, he hadn't seen since he had come back from Afghanistan. John knew that look. It was one he had worn fort many months, his constant companion in the long while he was alone. And then he had met Sherlock, and life had returned to him, and he could once again see the beauty in everything. And oh, how sweet life was. John took one look at those eyes and knew the battle he needed to fight was going to be long and hard, but it was one he needed to fight if he wanted to save Sherlock.

John slowly sat up, making his way slowly over to Sherlock. Even with his new purpose, his heart was still heavy with grief and guilt. He was a _doctor_, for fuck's sake, and this man was his best friend. He should've noticed, he should've seen the signs, he should've... No, he refused to let his thoughts travel down that road. He could feel guilty later. Right now he needed to help Sherlock.

He sat down gently next to Sherlock, and slowly put his arm on the shaking detective. "Sherlock," he said gently, "I've already said this so many times, I don't know how to say it any more. You are fantastic, brilliant, amazing, and the complete opposite of everything you just said. You are not worthless, Sherlock. You make a difference every day in this world just by being you. And Sherlock..." John put his finger under the detective's chin, and pulled his face up to meet his. He looked into those blue, grey, and green eyes that were filled with sorrow and whispered, "You are not a psychopath, or a sociopath. You are human, and you feel, and that is the best thing you can be." Sherlock began to cry and John wrapped his arms around the sobbing man, and rubbed soothing circles on his back. "I'm here," he said. He couldn't promise that everything would be better now, or that he would miraculously heal, but he was here. And that was all Sherlock needed.

* * *

_Sherlock screamed as the knife dug into his skin. He wanted to remain calm, he did, but the pain was too much. He quickly regained control of himself though, and escaped into his mind palace as he was cut all over his body. He nearly winced as he felt the cut along his cheekbone. He knew it would scar. At the moment though, he didn't care. Transport, he reminded himself. Just transport. _

_Moriarty pulled up his head by his curls again, He ran the knife over his face. "Not so pretty now, are you?" the madman cooed, running the knife over his scalp. Sherlock winced as he felt the sharp edge drag through his hair. Moriarty giggled, and cut at one of his curls. Sherlock saw it fall to the floor. He couldn't bring himself to care. _

_"Just one last thing for today, pet," Moriarty whispered in his ear. Sherlock struggled not shudder as he felt his hot breath on his ear. Then he had to try not to scream in agony as he began to feel the letter F engraved on his chest. "You are a freak," Moriarty whispered, "a pathetic waste of space on this planet."_

_Sherlock let his mind go blank._

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**A/N: Hi, it's Jcaslcgaiwd! Well, I hope you enjoyed that chapter because I certainly did. Sorry if Sherlock I'd a bit OOC, but remember, he is damaged and broken so he is not his former self anymore. I shall be updating the next chapter by tomorrow, so yeah. That's about it for now. Review and make me smile! :)**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Hello, lovely and fantastic readers! I am happy so many of you are following and reviewing this story. You all are so kind and your feedback is very helpful. I made a decision. Since this story is very emotional and heart breaking, I decided to make a fluffy and cute chapter just for you guys! So this entire chapter is a flashback which I hope makes you smile and laugh. That's all for now. Cheers!**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

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Sherlock trudges up the stairs, depressed and disappointed. It was his birthday, but everyone had forgotten. No, it wasn't that big of a deal to him, but John always made it memorable and fun. Not today though, everyone had forgotten. Even Mrs. Hudson. The detective enters the flat, going straight to his room. He lays in his bed, signing into the pillow.

He drifts off, but then his phone goes off. He almost considers not answering it, but then gets a bit of hope it was someone who remembered his birthday. Nope, it was just Lestrade.

_Dead couple on Leman Street. Will you come? -__GL_

With a sigh and grumble, Sherlock punches in a response.

_Why not? It's not like anything important is happening in my life today. -__SH_

He really hoped the D. I. got his hint.

_Great! See you in a few. -__GL_

Guess not.

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Sherlock gets in a cab, arriving at the crime scene. He investigates the bodies. Newly weds, young, both quite faithful, and not well off. They had been stabbed several times with a long, eight inch blade. Sherlock deduces that they had been mugged and then killed for their money. Nothing too difficult.

He also figures out that the mugger will be a man, about fifty years old, homeless, running around with a blue/ green purse. Lestrade thanks him and Sherlock gets back into the cab, heading home. He trudges up the stairs, again. He swings the door open to the flat, but is surprised by what he sees.

John stood at the table, smiling. On it was a full pan of lasagna and a beautiful and huge chocolate cake. Both of these things were Sherlock's favorite. He smiles, looking at his friend.

"Happy birthday, Sherlock." John says and Sherlock hugs him. The ex-soldier is shocked at first, but then gives in to the embrace.

"You remembered!" Sherlock exclaims, his eyes dancing. John notes that he hasn't seen Sherlock this happy in a very long time.

"Of course I did, Sher.! You're my best mate, how could I forget?"

"Well, everyone else did."

"Yeah, but I didn't. Plus, you don't want a present Sally and Anderson gave you."

"Good point." Sherlock says with a chuckle. They sit down, getting plates. John watches as Sherlock laughs and smiles, which makes him do the same. It baffled John that a cake and two words make his friend so happy. Well, Sherlock parents hadn't really taken care of him. His birthday probably never counted.

The first time John had made the younger man a cake for his birthday, Sherlock was shocked. That had made the blond haired man sad, so he always made sure to make Sherlock know that his birthday counted. They finish and eat the cake. John takes pictures, wanting to cherish that happy look on his friend's face. And those bright, dancing eyes.

Sherlock plops down onto the couch, rubbing his full stomach.

"My God, John, I'm not going to eat for a week!" He exclaims, sighing in a satisfied way. John smiles, turning on the telly. They watch TV and the older man gets up. Sherlock watches him. "Where are you going?"

"You'll see." His friend replies, running up to his bedroom. He comes back, hands behind his back. Sherlock raises an eyebrow, knowing that face. John hands him a box covered in bright red wrapping paper. "What's this?"

"Your present. Open it." The excited detective rips off the wrapping paper, gasping by it's content. It was a D. Albert and Fein hand crafted violin. Sherlock looks up at John, speechless. "This must have cost you a fortune!"

"No, it was only 1, 159 pounds." He answers with a shrug. The curly haired man shakes his head, observing his new treasure.

"Thank you so much, John." He breathes, running his hands across the smooth wood.

"You're welcome, mate."

"John, you're the best friend I've ever had. Actually, you're the first real friend I have ever had. No one has ever done anything this kind or amazing for me before in my life." He confesses to the ex-soldier. Sherlock gets up, testing out his new toy. He plays for a while, making John sleepy.

The detective stops eventually, his fingers and body tired and begging for rest. He says goodnight, heading to his bedroom. John smiles to himself, satisfied. He begins to clean the kitchen when he hears Sherlock clear his throat behind him. John turns, noticing the taller man was already in his pajamas.

"Yes, Sherlock?" He asks, putting the plates in the sink.

"I just wanted to, um thank you for all you did for me today." He scratches his curls nervously. This was a bit awkward for him.

"Yeah, it's no big deal."

"Actually yes, it is."

"How do you mean?"

"No one's ever done this for me." John nods, understanding. He felt sad for his friend, knowing that is was unfortunately true.

"What else are best friends for?" He smiles widely. Sherlock laughs, returning the expression.

"Thanks, John. Thanks a lot."

"No problem, now get to bed or you won't be able to solve crimes tomorrow." Sherlock nods and John pulls him into and embrace. The detective doesn't fight, happy to have John by his side.

"Goodnight, John." He says, heading into his room. The older man waves, watching his friend leave. No, not just his friend. His best friend.

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** Review, my friends!**


	6. Chapter 6

_**A/N: Hey, ya'll! RainyDays-and-DayDreams signing in. School is a bitch (as I'm sure those of you who have experienced know/remember). I'm trying to write as much as I can, but I have an insane amount of work and other fanfictions I am working on, so I'm sorry I always update slower than the dear Jcasclcgaiwd, but I try to update as frequently as possible. Anyhoo, enough with the excuses and onto the story! *dramatic music begins* And I apologize if Sherlock is OOC. He's been through a very traumatic experience, and I'm trying to keep him as in-character as possible, but I'm not sure how successful I'm being. I hope you enjoy!**_

_**(line goes here) **_

Sherlock only cried for a few minutes, but it was enough to break the good doctor's heart. Seeing this once proud man fall to pieces in front of him was devastating. He kept himself together, though. Sherlock needed him, and he would be his anchor.

Sherlock felt disgusted with himself as he stopped crying. He was a Holmes, and Holmes never cried. But he had shown his weaker side in front of his flatmate, and it was embarrassing. He noticed the man's arms were still wrapped around him. Shame-facedly, he tried to turn away. "Sorry," he muttered. But John held on tighter. "No," he said, gently. Sherlock hated the note of gentleness in his voice. He was already broken. He didn't need to be treated like a fragile glass sculpture.

John pulled his head up again, and looked into his eyes. He wiped a few stray tears off his face. "Sherlock, I'm sorry you had to go through that. But I'm here now. I can help you through this."

Sherlock didn't respond, but he slowly let John embrace him again. He didn't do anything, he just sat there. He felt a surge of brotherly love for the man holding him. He'd never really had a friend before. He supposed that John was his friend before he was kidnapped, but he couldn't see him doing this for him before the kidnapping. Or maybe he would've, and he'd just never had a reason to. Either way, he mused, as much as he hated to admit, the feeling of him holding him was nice. Not in that way, of course, but it was nice having someone hold him. It made him feel… secure. For the first time since his capture and subsequent rescue, he allowed himself to feel something a little akin to hope. Maybe he would get better, he thought. Maybe he wasn't as much of a freak as he thought he was. He sat up a little straighter, but let John continue to embrace him.

After what felt like an eternity, John slowly let him go. "Better?" he asked. Sherlock nodded. He didn't feel like speaking. John stood up. "Good," he said. He poked Sherlock gently in the ribs. "Let's see if I can get some food into you first. Then I can see if you need to go to the hospital." Sherlock didn't object, but felt nauseated at the mention of food. He would try to eat, though. For John.

He heard someone walking up the stairs as John busied himself in the kitchen. It wasn't Mrs. Hudson's usual soft, slow steps. It was heavier, clunkier, and it sounded as if he was carrying something that would tap the ground every few seconds. _Mycroft_, Sherlock thought. He seethed. He stood up, consequences be damned, and made his way to the door to chase away his overbearing brother. He paused for a second and leaned against the wall to stop the dizziness before continuing. He reached and opened the door just as Mycroft arrived. "What," he hissed through his teeth, "do you want, brother _dear_." He sincerely hoped his brother wouldn't notice how hard it was for him to breathe, or how he had to lean on the door for support.

Mycroft frowned when he saw his brother, but that action in itself spoke volumes. "Just stopping by to see how my little brother is doing," he replied, making a show of swinging his umbrella and looking down, when he was really looking at his brother. He was alarmed at how thin the man had become, and he tried not to notice the sickly pallor on his skin that he hadn't seen since… well, since Sherlock had last been using drugs. "I should know that it isn't a crime to look after one's own brother- I write most of the laws, after all." He smiled a sweet, fake smile at Sherlock, who scowled in return. _What's happened to you?_ Mycroft worried. _I thought you were doing well, I thought John was taking care of you…_

Sherlock actually growled at his brother. "I am fine," he hissed. "No need to show off. Now leave, please." He flew out his arm in an expansive gesture that he hoped wouldn't use up too much energy. He knew he was going to collapse if he didn't sit back down soon.

John wasn't expecting for Sherlock to be gone when he reached the living area again with the food. He turned around, and saw Sherlock standing at the door, blocking the way of someone who John could only assume was Mycroft. He sighed, and began to make his way to the door to help chase Mycroft away, and lead Sherlock back to the sofa. The man shouldn't even have been standing up in the first place, and John was worried he might collapse in his weakened state.

Sherlock could hear John and Mycroft talking, but he could no longer understand what they were saying. His vision began to go black at the edges. _Oh,_ he thought. _I'm about to pass out. I should probably go sit down. _Not hearing the two men beside him's objections, he tried to move back to the couch, which just made his vision begin to go black at a more rapid pace. His vision was now half gone. He still wasn't panicking, though- he knew he could make it to the couch. He still moved, but picked up the pace. His vision was now completely gone. He used the last image he had in his mind as a guide, lunged wildly forward, fell in the direction he thought the couch was, and felt himself hit the table as he completely lost consciousness. _"Sherlock!"_ was the last thing he heard before he faded into complete oblivion.

_**A/N: Haha, a cliffhanger! Mwahaha! Sorry for leaving another one of these, I just thought I should point out that Sherlock's passing out is based on my own experiences with losing consciousness. I have "health issues", and am therefore used to passing out. Not fun. Anyhoo, hope you enjoyed, and please review!**_


	7. Chapter 7

John sprinted over to his friend's side and Mycroft did the same. The doctor lightly shook Sherlock, trying to get the detective to wake up. He got no reaction and checked Sherlock's pulse. It was weak. He sighs, ordering the older Holmes to help him put Sherlock on the couch. John drapes a blanket over his thin body, feeling his forehead.

High fever and low blood pressure. Sherlock needed food and bad! Mycroft leaves, saying he's no use and he'll come back later. The ex-soldier makes a note to yell at the government official later, but not now. His main concern was Sherlock. John sighs, running a hand through his hair.

"Jesus, Sher, why did you do this?" He mutters, shaking his head.

Sherlock wakes up a few hours later, exhausted and weak. John forces him to eat and he hates it. He's too weak to fight or yell back in protest, so he eats the disgusting brown liquid anyway. After a harsh stare down with his friend and holding back his gags, the curly haired man finishes. He wants to sleep, but John forces him to shower. He does so, not really enjoying it. The detective finishes and then gets dressed, finding a grumpy doctor waiting for him. He sits on the couch, pulling his legs up to his chest. He was so tired. John touches Sherlock's arm and he looks up into those blue eyes. They were sad, angry, upset, and full of regret. The taller man swallows, feeling bad.

"I'm sorry, John." He whispers into his shirt.

"For?"

"For hurting you." Sherlock answers in a small voice. He really did feel bad. John pulls him into a gentle embrace and Sherlock wraps his small fingers around John's jumper. He smells the jam and cologne, smiling. It was nice to smell something familiar and know it's real. That it is really there. It wasn't an illusion it was real. Everything was and it felt nice.

John allowed Sherlock to sleep on the couch, considering he had a high fever and would need taking care of. Sherlock mostly sleeps, moaning and sweating in his sleep. The blond haired man watches over him, keeping him safe from the monsters and demons inside his hallucinating brain. It was a long night for the both of them.

* * *

"Why don't you eat?" John asked Sherlock the next week over breakfast. Sherlock look sup from his experiment, shrugging. "No, no, don't even. Seriously, I want to know why." The taller man sighs, almost annoyed.

"Why does it even matter to you whether I eat or not?" Sherlock snaps, shooting a glare at John. He was hiding his fear and vulnerability behind that glare. He just hoped John didn't notice.

"Because you're my friend and I'm concerned for your health." John answers simply and Sherlock rolls his eyes. He had to act like he was fine and his old self so John would stop pestering him with these questions he didn't want to answer. It was the only way.

"Do you really want to know?" He asks, slightly scared of the answer.

"Yes, of course I do!"

"Because I- I…..", Sherlock sighs, running a hand through his messy curls."BecauseIhatemybody." He jumbles out all in one sentence. John raises an eyebrow.

"What did you just say?"

"Because I hate my body." Sherlock whispers flatly, staring at the ground. John stands up, grabbing his wrist and Sherlock looks up at him with a confused look.

"Come one, follow me." John says, but he still doesn't move. "You trust me, don't you?" The taller man nods and John smiles. He leads him into the bathroom and they stand in front of the mirror. John scoots Sherlock close to it, standing behind him. Sherlock feels his soft hands on his shoulders and it feels nice.

"Look at yourself and tell me what you see." He states and Sherlock sighs with boredom. "Just do it." Sherlock looks up, feeling awkward.

"I see a man. He's skinny, actually way too skinny for comfort. He has messy black hair and cold eyes. He wishes his eyes weren't so cold and mean. The man is tired and ugly, he has too many scars. His skin use to be perfect, but now he looks like an ugly monster. That's what he is though: an ugly monster. Behind him is another man. A great man. One of the greatest he's ever met actually."

John smiles gently, standing up a little taller.

"Now I'm going to say what _I _see." The ex-soldier says, looking at his friend in the mirror. "I see a tall, lean man. He's much taller than me, but it makes him seem more intimidating." Sherlock laughs a bit at this. "This man has blue eyes that look like two crystals. He also has thick, black curls that are the coolest things ever. He's also very smart, funny, and my best friend." Sherlock smiles, standing up a bit taller. He turns and pulls John into a tight embrace. The ex-soldier doesn't object, falling into the kind gesture. He feels his hair becoming slightly damp and smiles.

Why? Because Sherlock Holmes was crying tears of joy, not pain this time.


	8. Chapter 8

**Hey, y'all! Rainy here. Sorry about the long absence. If you didn't know, I took the Johnlock 30 Day OTP Challenge. Which is why I've been absent so long- writing a story every day for 30 days does tend to take up one's time. However, the challenge is now over, and I am now much more confident in my writing abilities and am ready to return to this story! If you're interested, you can see the whole challenge on my profile. But now- onto the story! *cue dramatic music***

Sherlock stared at the bowl of porridge in front of him.

"Eat." John tapped his foot impatiently.

Sherlock remained silent, staring at the obnoxious substance in the bowl in front of him.

John sighed. "We had a deal, Sherlock. Remember the mirror?"

Sherlock nodded his head. How could he forget?

John sighed. "Then eat." He pointed to his watch. "I really don't want to be late for work, but I'm not leaving until I see you eat."

Sherlock pushed his spoon through the unappetizing food.

"What? Do you not like porridge?'

Sherlock looked at John with his signature "don't-be-an-idiot-you-don't-exactly-need-to-be-me-to-figure-this-out" looks.

John sighed. "And you're telling me this now? Why?"

Sherlock shrugged. He wasn't in a talkative mood.

John sighed. "I can make you some eggs." He looked at Sherlock. "Unless that isn't acceptable either."

Sherlock cleared his throat. "That's fine." He looked around the flat, anywhere except John. He couldn't look at him right then.

John smiled despite himself and ruffled Sherlock's curls fondly. "I'll start on those," he said, heading for the kitchen. He called out behind him, "But you have to eat them!"

As John made him eggs, Sherlock laid his head back and thought about the past few weeks.

Sherlock became so lost in his own thoughts and memories that he started when John placed the eggs on front of him.

"Wh- oh!"

John laughed. "Eat, you git. I spilled some egg whites on my jumper, so I'm going to go change. Be right back."

Sherlock looked around. He could easily go and sump the eggs somewhere- out the window, somewhere John wouldn't find them, and say he'd eaten them. He'd done so on a few occasions.

But something kept him in that chair. Tentatively, he took a fork full of eggs and raised them to his mouth.

John emerged from his room a few minutes later, in a fresh jumper. Sherlock was on the couch, fingers steepled under his chin, eyes closed, wandering the halls of his mind palace. John looked over at the plate. Half of its contents were gone. He smiled. It was a start.

Once he was sure John was gone, Sherlock rise from his spot on the couch. He began to pace around the flat, running his hands through his hair, flinging his hands about as he tried to sort through what he was feeling.

Sherlock Holmes was a man who did not do sentiment, no. Nor was he a man who did self-loathing. But he had succumbed to self-loathing in the wake of his capture and subsequent torture, and it appeared as if he had succumbed to sentiment in his recent revival.

Which still had its bumps. He was eating now- but only if John made him. He had stopped self-harming, but only after he had relapsed twice. He had stopped doing drugs, but had a stash hidden around the flat somewhere.

Speaking of which...

No, he had to think of John. John, who had cared for him since the beginning. John, who only wanted the best for him. John, who was his friend but did far more than most friends would do.

John, who made his heart beat a little faster when he was near. John, who made his stomach feel a little strange when he was nearby. John, his decidedly not-gay best friend and flatmate.

Sherlock shook his head again. He couldn't just delete the emotions- they were to primal a part of his being to be completely forced down.

God, why did sentiment have to be so difficult?

Groaning, he sat back on the couch, resolving to spend a few hours wandering his mind palace. Maybe that would clear thing up a it.

At least he wouldn't be bored, he thought with a wry smile.

When John returned from the clinic, he saw Sherlock laying on the couch, wandering once again in his mind palace.

John looked around for signs that he had eaten in his absence. Finding none, he sighed. "You didn't eat, did you?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

Sherlock sat up, giving John another one of his signature looks. He knew John knew the answer too.

John sighed. "Of course not." He went into the kitchen, shrugging his coat off as he went. "What do you want?"

Sherlock fixed John with another look.

"Sherlock, you're eating whether you like it or not, and I'm going to just make you something if you don't tell me what you want."

Sherlock slumped into the couch, defeated. "Can we just get Chinese food?"

John smiled. "That'll work great." He reached for the phone, prepared to order take-out.

Sherlock watched him as he did this. He still was having trouble eating, but he was on the mend. John was there to look after him.

John.

Even his name sent a million flutters through his stomach.

What the hell was wrong with him?

He shook his head, trying to clear it of the distracting thoughts.

The food arrived a half an hour later.

As John spread the veritable feast out on the table, Sherlock eyed it with distaste. John, seeing Sherlock's disapproving glare, sighed. "I got you your favorite."

Silence for a moment. "I know."

Another pause. "Thank you."

John smiled. Sherlock never said thank you.

"You're welcome," he whispered.

As Sherlock ate, he felt tired. In retrospect, this should have been a sign something was wrong. But he succumbed instead to the wonderful bliss of sleep, and John did the same.

When he awoke, he could tell something was wrong. He was tied up to some sort of chair. He looked around. Factory, built in the seventies, abandoned for around fifteen years. John was tied up in a corner, which-

Wait. John was tied up. In a corner.

Just as he realized what this meant, he heard a sinister voice come from behind him. Hands reached up and covered his eyes.

"Hello again, Sherly. I'm so glad you and your pet could join me."

**Please review!**


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